


Rubber Meets Road (Can You Smell the Smoke)? --Redux

by Actual_Writing_Trashcan



Series: Colossus Hyperfixation Collection [35]
Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Angst angst angst angst, Car Accidents, F/M, I NEEDED TO WRITE ANGST AND I DID, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mentions of Organized Crime, Nothing but angst, and some fluff, backstory on Piotr's mother, because marvel hasn't given her one so i say FAIR GAME, but ANGST, but no seriously piotr's a human and he's not perfect, hi this is angst, i WILL DIE ON THIS HILL DAMMIT, my version of her backstory, or - Freeform, piotr is a human that has issues of his own in this essay i will, you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 08:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17639129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Actual_Writing_Trashcan/pseuds/Actual_Writing_Trashcan
Summary: Piotr's POV on the "Rubber Meets" Road fic.All warnings in the tags, but to review: mentions of car accidents, abuse, and generally petty behavior.





	Rubber Meets Road (Can You Smell the Smoke)? --Redux

He can hear the music in the background --some rock song, he’s pretty sure it’s from Halestorm, one of the bands he knows Ellie introduced you to--and right now all it’s doing is making him grit his teeth.

_**“I don’t know how to stop!”** _

He takes a deep breath and tries to keep himself calm.  _Shouting will help no one_. “You will both return to X-Mansion this instant.”

And you keep arguing. And so does Wade. You both keep arguing despite the fact that there’s absolutely no way to justify what both of you have done.

 _Heads up their own asses_ , he thinks as he clenches and unclenches his fist. “Come home, Y/N. Now.”

Another barest start of an argument.

He inhales deeply, mentally preparing for another round of mental gymanastics. He exhales, slowly--

“Look out!”

“Shit!”

Terror spikes through his entire system as he hears screaming and the sound of metal screeching and glass shattering. He knows what’s happening --it’s what he was worried would happen--and it takes all the self-control he has not to crush the phone he’s holding from sheer fear.

The call cuts out, and he freezes for a moment before sprinting towards Professor Xavier’s office.

 

* * *

Wade is fine. Because of course he is.

And Piotr doesn’t like to think of himself as petty --of course he’s glad Wade is alright, Wade’s his friend--but he really doesn’t care about Wade right now.

Because Wade always comes out alright. And the people connected to him don’t. That’s how Wade works.

You’re alright too, technically. All of your limbs are still attached and you haven’t broken anything. It’s a fucking miracle, even if it’s one he doesn’t understand, given the constraints of reality.

He hasn’t been down to see you yet. You aren’t awake, and he  _does_  have classes to attend to, and--

 _Bozhe, pomogi mne, I am so angry_. He grips his hands together and presses his forehead against them, trying to calm himself down.

He’s already gotten a lecture about your ‘wild tendencies’ from Professor Xavier for this particular incident, along with several looks and muttered, abruptly aborted conversations from his peers and colleagues.

And he’s tired. He’s so  _fucking_  tired of all the wild shit that you and Wade get up to. He’ll be the first to admit that some of it’s funny --lighten up,  _Scott_ \--but he’ll also be the first to admit that the two of you are destructive.

 _You’re_  destructive.

He takes a deep breath, then smiles pleasantly when his first afternoon class walks through the door. “ _Privet. Pozhaluysta, zaymite svoi mesta._ ”

He  _does_  have classes to attend to, after all.

 

* * *

He takes care of his classes. And then he grades his students’ work. And then he gets caught up on grading. And then he reviews the syllabus for the year and makes sure everything’s on course.

And after that, the sun’s long since gone down and he doesn’t have anymore excuses to keep him from seeing you.

He sits back in his desk chair and rubs his face with his hands.

And he groans.  _O, Bozhe. This is too much to deal with_.

He puts his teaching stuff away, stows the stuff he still needs in his bag, and leaves.

And goes to bed.

 

* * *

“You’re being an asshole.”

“Language, NTW.”

“She is your damn girlfriend--”

“Ellie--”

“No, don’t you fucking ‘language’ me, Colossus!” Ellie glares down at him, arms crossed over her chest. “I don’t care how mad you are or what issues the two of you have. Y/N is your fucking girlfriend, and when your girlfriend gets into a car accident you go and  _see her_.”

He keeps his eyes focused on his sketchpad, even though he isn’t really drawing much of anything. “I have other responsibilities--”

Ellie slams her hands against the table he’s seated at, forcing him to look up at her. “You’re being a piece of shit and you know it.” She pulls her phone out of her pocket and starts tapping at the screen.

“What are you doing?”

“Texting Y/N to let her know where you are.”

“Ellie--”

“No.” She glares at him again, unyielding. “You’ve stepped in shit. You gotta clean it up.”

And before he can do anything else, you’re walking into the library. “Where the fuck have you been?!”

“She’s here. Deal with this like an adult!”

He doesn’t look up at you. He can’t. It’s not just anger anymore; shame is welling up in him too, at his own actions and negligence.

He covers his own ass --double the shame. “I have many responsibilities here at mansion. You know this.”

“Are you fucking serious, Piotr? I was in a fucking car accident!”

He still covers his own ass --triple the shame. “I know. I distinctly remember calling you before it happened.”

“Are you-- you didn’t even come check on me! I was in the clinic overnight!”

He  _still_  --tries--to cover his own ass --quadruple the shame. “I have many--”

“No! No! Don’t you fucking ‘I had things to do’ bullshit me!” 

He’s forced to look at you when you push his sketchpad down --normally a crime against humanity, but he knows he’s earned it this time around--and a shiver runs down his spine; you’re the perfect picture of fury, hell on wheels aimed directly at him.

He’s made his bed, and now he has to lie in it.

“I was in a fucking car accident! I don’t care how pissed you are at me, we’re partners! We fucking show up and make sure the other person is okay!”

The anger comes back, overriding the shame --and his common sense, considering that he chooses to cover his own ass again instead of apologizing to you for his selfish behavior.

Quintuple the shame. 

“Partners also respect each other. Make sure they don’t do damage to each other’s reputations. That they don’t upend each other’s days.”

“Are you fucking serious? How could I have--”

“You have common sense,” he growls, anger burning hotter. He doesn’t like to think of himself as a man with a temper, but he knows he has one, buried deep underneath his convictions and gentleness. “Enough to know that doing every idea Wade suggests is foolish. Enough to know that speeding during rainstorm is downright idiotic!”

“You’re not even gonna acknowledge the fact that you didn’t bother to check in on me? You really think I deserved that?”

It’s out of his mouth before he can think about it or stop himself.

“As much as I deserve having to deal with each escalation in your behavior the longer you refuse to deal with void left by your parents.”

He sees it on your face as soon as the last syllable leaves his lips. 

No, he saw it before that, well before that, but he didn’t stop anyway.

Sextuple --or whatever the sixth degree is--the shame.

He goes after you, but you’re faster than him, and you’re not even in the hall when he clears the flight of stairs that stop on the third floor of the mansion. He searches through the room the two of you share, even heads out onto the balcony and cranes his neck back so he can see the roof, but it’s no use. “Where is she?” he asks when he sees Wade watching him.

“Look, man, she doesn’t want to talk to you right now. Give her some space. Go cool off.”

He sighs, but concedes. He knows well enough that trying to force you into doing something you don’t want to is impossible.

 

* * *

His mother had always told him that he had issues with facing problems head on. That he had a nasty habit of letting things roll over him until they blew over --or until he blew up.

His older brother, Mikhail, had proven his mother’s theories about his personality time and time again. Mikhail, the brash and suave and  _asshole-ish_  older sibling had done his fair share of walking all over Piotr, until he got bored or Piotr snapped.

He knows --he  _knows_  beyond a shadow of a doubt--that this is one of those situations. That he’s running from the problem, hoping it’ll blow over and that the two of you’ll just go back to normal.

Shame to the seventh degree, special order just for him.

He sets up camp in his art studio, and he does that because he stayed out of the mansion all day and dodged your texts and calls for hours and hours and hours and  _hours_ \--

And he hasn’t told you that he’s back yet.

Shame, eighth degree.

“What the fuck!” 

He flinches, having been so deep in his own wallowing session that he hadn’t heard you coming. “Y/N--”

“Are you fucking serious? You go all day without answering any of my texts, don’t even tell me that you’re back home, and now you’re camping out in your studio? I was so fucking worried! I thought someone had gotten to you, like in Harmony or one of Magneto’s agents!”

 _And shame keeps coming_. “I figured it would be better if we had some time apart. I thought you would not want to see me after what I said.”

“Nuh-uh. You don’t get to make yourself the fucking martyr of this situation, Rasputin. No one’s putting you in the dog house but yourself. So quit acting like a long-suffering saint!”

That one stings, and you’re absolutely right--

And he just shoves his foot deeper in his mouth,  _Bozhe, pomogi yemu._

“I may as well be, considering everything you put me through.” _Zatk`nis, Piotr! Quit making things worse!_

“This again? Are you--”

“‘This again?’” This time, the anger he feels is justified, righteous even. “Why do my frustrations only get a ‘this again?’ You are not only person in this relationship! Everything you do reflects on me! Do you ever consider how your actions make me look?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry I’m such an ugly duckling!”

He scoffs. “Now who is being martyr?”

“You know what? Fuck off, Piotr. Sleep in your damn art studio if you want. Hope your bullshit keeps you company enough.”

Part of him feels a little cut that you’re being such a brat --and that you got such a good parting line in, to boot--but the larger, better, part of him knows that he made this situation as much of a shitshow as you did.

 _Go on, medvezhonok_ , he hears his mother say in his head.  _Go fix things. Quit running from the problem_.

He sighs, and gets up to follow you.

 

* * *

You’re gone. No note, no warning. Your regular phone --not the burner that he knows you have and never let anyone else access, God knows where you got it from--is on the dresser in your shared room.

It’s a clear sign; you’ve gone to wherever it is you go whenever you need specialized training. It’s where you went when you disappeared after getting busted for using repression serum to control your episodes.

He slams his fists against the dresser with a growl, chest heaving with every ragged breath he takes.  _Enough. Enough of this. Enough secrets_.

He pulls his laptop out of his bag, turns it on, and accesses your file through Xavier’s internal system used to monitor the progress and histories of all residents at the mansion.

He has special access, since he’s an X-Man and a teacher. He gets to see more than most of his colleagues and peers do, even. As much as Scott likes to act like the big man on campus, Piotr knows from several discussions with the Professor that  _he’s_  the one slotted to take things over when Xavier steps down, not Scott.

It’s something he’s never told anyone because he’d rather not look like he was lording it over anyone -- _Scott_ \--but it does come in handy for situations like these.

Surprisingly --concerningly,  _alarmingly_ \--enough, most of your file is redacted. There are definite  _signs_  that you have connections outside the mansion, outside of your parents, but everything’s been shuffled or outright blacked out.

Anger turns into fear as he keeps looking and hitting intentionally placed dead ends.  _Bozhe moi, what has she gotten herself into?_

He’s no hacker, nor is he a tech expert like Ellie, but Piotr knows his fair share about computers. One doesn’t grow up in Russia --with a mother like his, at least--without knowing how to dig into electronic files when necessary.

It still doesn’t do much, but it does get him some phone call records between Professor Xavier and an unlisted number.

And a set of coordinates.

He sends the coordinates to one of the jets, then goes to suit up.

 

* * *

The confrontation, admittedly, goes worse than he expected.

You’re angry.

He expected that.

You fight with him.

He expected that.

And then the man that introduced himself as your uncle --but didn’t give a name, which isn’t a detail that’s lost on Piotr--tells the two of you to get out before the “feds” jump all over him.

And that sets off alarm bells in his head like nobody’s business.

 

* * *

It’s not something he ever talks about --not even with Professor Xavier, though he suspects that the man knows bits and pieces.

Alexandra Volodyavna Rasputina, formerly known as “The Invisible Hand.” KGB assassin during the Cold War, taken from her family as a child when her mutation presented and trained by the government to be a killer, spy, and asset to the motherland.

And after the Cold War... well...

No one gets out in Russia.

He doesn’t know the full story; he knows that’s for his own safety and good. He knows, just barely, that his mother has some sort of connection to the mafia --a deal he knows she had no say in, once the KGB was disbanded.

No one gets out in Russia.

His parents are farmers and his mother, officially, works as a curriculum translator.

She also took a lot of calls that seemed add shadows in her eyes and weight to her shoulders.

Because no one gets out in Russia.

 

* * *

He purses his lips as he watches you fly off.  _She is so damn stubborn_.

It’s one of the --many--reasons he loves you, is head over heels for you, even if it rankles him every now and then.

“Word of advice,” the unnamed uncle says as he heads back into the farmhouse that seems to be very deliberately placed in the middle of nowhere. “Grow a damn spine, Piotr.”

 

* * *

Everything that comes out in the kitchen is gut-wrenching, but not surprising.

The man at the house is your uncle. He’s a former non-voluntary government operative that managed to escape his handlers and lives under the radar for his own safety.

Or, he did, until Piotr literally flew a massive jet out to his property.

“Go.” Ellie practically shoves him up the three flights of stairs to the room the two of you usually share and into the bedroom. “Get some sleep. If I catch you working, I’m spiking whatever drink I give you with sleeping pills.”

He smirks, but waves off his trainee and promises to rest all the same.

The door closes behind him, and then he’s alone with his thoughts.  _You fucked this up, Piotr. Big time_.

 

* * *

“Who is he? Who is he to the Institute?”

Professor Xavier sits back in his wheelchair and steeples his fingers. “You know I can’t tell you much.”

Piotr places his hands on the desk separating them and leans towards the Professor. “If I am going to take over for you someday, I  _need_  to know.”

Xavier sighs heavily, then nods and motions for Piotr to sit. “Unnamed is one of our... off the record contacts. He handles... certain situations for us, and we provide him with various favors in return.”

Piotr’s eyes narrow. “He is a hitman.”

“There are groups, adversaries, out there that are beyond our capabilities, Piotr,” Xavier says patiently. “Mafia families, drug traffickers, assassins. People that are all too happy to cast their sights on the mutant community. Unnamed makes sure that those groups stay clear of the Institute and the families that use our services.”

“I thought we were against killing. Against violence.”

“We are. Those who serve as X-Men are expressly forbidden from killing.”

“And yet we hire contract killer.”

“I think you will find, Piotr, that handling situations like the Institute’s requires two sides. Some of us have to stay clean, above the fray, so that we don’t lose our licensing to work with children, many of whom are often abused and become permanent residents at the Institute. To safeguard that, we also need people like Unnamed, to keep us safe and make sure that we can keep future generations of mutants safe.”

Piotr frowns. He can see the logic, see the necessity, but-- “You forbid Wade from killing mutant traffickers. Child traffickers. Abusers. Where is difference? Why not have this ‘Unnamed’ handle those for us?”

“Unnamed can’t do every single job for us. Even he has limits,” Xavier says, infuriatingly placid.

“ _Da_ , but that does not answer my question. You already have someone killing for us. Why not have us do the work instead?”

“I don’t know, Piotr. You tell me.”

 _Grow a damn spine, Piotr_.

He stands, plants his hands on the desk again, and looks Xavier in the eye. “ _Nyet_. You made rule. You tell me.”

“We can’t work with children if we kill people,” Xavier says after a moment. “And, after a certain point, the public needs to see mutants in a positive light. We can’t offer that if we kill.”

“So, politics,” Piotr says.

“I hardly believe that safeguarding children is politics.”

“Perhaps not, but doing things for sole sake of image is.”

“Piotr--”

He shakes his head. “I do not kill because I know taking lives always puts others in danger. There is always collateral. I do not kill because I believe I do not have right to take life. I can agree with safeguarding children, and I can agree with making sure the Institute has longevity, but what you are doing is wrong. You are using a man as your gun. That is still killing.”

“Sometimes, death is an unfortunate necessity.”

“And what happens when it comes back to bite us in ass?”

Xavier raises an eyebrow at the language choice, then lowers it when Piotr doesn’t drop his stare. “Ostensibly, that’s why we hired Unnamed. To make sure it won’t.”

Piotr shakes his head again and moves to leave. “You can’t know that won’t happen.”

 

* * *

He sits out by the back door and waits. He knows Nathan’s taken you out to blow off some steam --he can hear the gunfire, even from where he’s at--and he wants to catch you when you come back.

 _It’s time to make things right_.

He’s got time to kill before you get back, though, so he’s --perhaps fortunately, perhaps unfortunately--left with his thoughts for the time being.

It’s difficult to process the reality that Xavier has a hired gun protecting the Institute. He understands keeping people like the mafia off their backs --he understands better than anyone else here,  _thank you very much_ \--but there’s still something hypocritical in it.

And yet, Piotr has his own kill count. Some of it’s unintentional --ricocheting bullets bouncing off his armor and hitting an opponent, for example--and some of it was... careless...

He’d thrown a man against a wall during his efforts to retrieve you after you’d thrown yourself through a plate glass window during a mission, and unwittingly broken the man’s neck.

Piotr likes to think himself a gentle man. Something close to a pacifist, even. He doesn’t like violence, doesn’t like killing, doesn’t like hurting people if it isn’t  _absolutely necessary_.

And warding off traffickers and mafia members and drug lords and other such unsavory types is a necessity. The students need it.

And, on a different level, he knows that if it came down to it, he’d kill to protect you --and whatever future children the two of you end up having.

 _But that is not matter of violence_ , he thinks, remembering what his own  _papochka_  told him about a husband and father’s duties in protecting his family.  _It is matter of principle. Of honor. Of making sure my family is safe_.

And anyway, it’d be defense of others at that point, which --legally--wasn’t murder, and certainly wasn’t senseless violence--

or hiring a hit man to safeguard a school.

 _Bozhe moi_ , Piotr thinks as he rubs his face with his hands.  _I am getting nowhere fast with this_.

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to get anywhere else with it, because at that moment you and Nathan come strolling across the back lawn.

His heart breaks when he sees you walking with your head down and shoulders hunched in, then shreds when you lock eyes with him and turn away, crying. He stands and closes the distance as slowly as he can manage, trying to not crowd you to suddenly.

“No! He’s gonna hate me, and--”

“ _Myshka_.” He rubs his hand over your back first, letting you adjust to his touch, before moving to your arm and turning you around.

He knows that apologies aren’t an easy thing for you. It’s not an issue of pride, but of trust; he knows that your parents have never apologized for anything they’ve done to you, and that it’s left you defensive and wary of any situation where you have to apologize for anything.

He also knows that most the apologizing you did as a child was during painful, brutal beatings, which is why he’s being deliberately slow and gentle right now, making sure that you know he won’t force you to do anything.

He knows he’s apologizing first, and he’s confident that the gesture will be enough of an olive branch to win your trust. Either way, it’s no skin off his nose.

He cups your face, small and delicate in his hands, and wipes the tears trickling down your cheeks away with his thumbs. Then, he stoops down and presses his lips against your forehead. “I’m sorry.”

He has to catch you in his arms when you crumple against him.

“Piotr --I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry!”

“So am I,  _myshka_. So am I.”

 

* * *

You sleep for a while, in his arms. Where you belong.

He dozes for part of it, then chases his thoughts when his body decides that napping is a foregone activity. He lets his mind run around in circles about your “unnamed” uncle until he gives it up, deciding that there’s nothing he’ll figure out tonight --or any time soon, if the ethical stalemate he keeps hitting is anything to go by.

And then you’re waking up, so clearly there’s something to be said for the serendipitous timing of the universe.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. Piotr --babe--I’m really sorry. I’m sorry about going along with Wade’s idea when I knew better, and I’m sorry for stealing the car and wrecking it, and I’m sorry for yelling at you in the library and the art studio, and I’m sorry for flying out to my uncle’s without telling you and trying to pass it off as following your idea--”

“It’s okay,  _myshka_. You are very much forgiven. For all of it. And I am sorry for my part in all of this. I should have checked on you after the accident, and I should never have said what I did about you and your parents.”

“Well, I mean, you weren’t wrong.”

“Accuracy and moral correctness are two different things. Instead of talking to you in private, out of love and concern for you, I said it out of anger to hurt you, and I am so sorry. I hope you can forgive me.” He adjusts his posture a little when you tuck your face into his neck and runs his hand over your hair.

“It’s okay --I mean, we’re…” You sit up. “Can you turn the light on?”

He does, and his heart aches at how tired -- _ragged_ \--you look.

“Are we… are we still us? Am… am I still your  _myshka_?”

And here it is, the part he’s been dreading.

 _Don’t run away from your problems, medvezhonok_.

He kisses your fingertips, all together and then one by one. “You will be my  _myshka_  for as long as you want to be.”

“I’ll always want to be your  _myshka_.”

Relief courses through him, and he pulls you into a hug. “Then you will always be my  _myshka_.”

Because you always will be, in the end. No matter what problems the two of you face or what fights you have, you’ll always be in his heart. He’s known it for a long time now, and stopped trying to fight it too long ago to make trying to do so again a lost cause. The only way you’ll stop being his  _myshka_  is if you say so.

He kisses the top of your head and drinks in the comfort of feeling you in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, guess who threw up today?
> 
> MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-
> 
> *screams into the void*
> 
> Love/comments here/asks in my inbox on Tumblr are very much appreciated. Now, excuse me while I go back to erotically leaning over a toilet.
> 
> ...
> 
> ifyouknowherethatreferencecamefromiloveyou


End file.
